Foreshadowing
by Darkover
Summary: We should never assume we know everything, much less what the future holds. Please read and review!
1. Chapter 1

Title: "Foreshadowing"

Author: Darkover

Characters: Richard D. Winters and OC

Rating: K

Spoilers: none

Disclaimer: I do not own "Band of Brothers," the miniseries. Nor do I own any of the men upon whom the miniseries is based, as they were and are real people, for whom I have great respect and admiration. This is a work of fiction. No offense is intended, and I fervently hope none is taken. I am not making any money off of this; please do not sue.

Summary: We should never assume we know everything, much less what the future holds. Please read and review!

What a bunch of rubes, the young officer thought contemptuously as he stood before the audience of young soldiers. From the look of them, most of them have come straight off of the farm. Especially that one right in front, the tall one with the red hair. Much quieter than the rest. Doesn't call attention to himself, but you can't help noticing him, somehow. The new young officer gave a mental shrug. Probably a dummy, that's why he doesn't talk. I'll get on with the assigned lecture.

Stepping forward, the officer announced loudly; "Attention, men! Today I am here to tell you of the differences between the 1903 Springfield rifle, formerly used by the U.S. Army, and the new weapon, the M1 Garand rifle." As he spoke, the young lieutenant picked up one of the two rifles on the table before him and held it up to demonstrate. "As you can see, the new M1 Garand is much improved—"

The young red-haired man raised his hand.

The lieutenant glared at him. "Questions can wait until after my lecture, soldier!"

The red-haired soldier lowered his hand without a word.

In the two hours that followed, the ninety-day-wonder of a lieutenant lectured on the superiority of the new M1 Garand rifle over the old Springfield—without ever once realizing that, as he did so, he had gotten the two rifles mixed up. When he finished, he felt satisfied, even smug. After he had put the young red-haired soldier in his place, no one had tried to interrupt again. When he said, "Dismissed," the men all rose quickly and without comment and headed for the door.

"Not you," the lieutenant called out, stopping the red-haired soldier and glancing at the name on his uniform. "Winters, is it?"

The young man came to attention before him. "Yes, sir. Winters, Richard D."

"Do you have any questions now, soldier?" the lieutenant asked, not bothering to keep the drawling sarcasm out of his voice.

"Just one, sir. How would I go about becoming an officer?"

The smug lieutenant almost laughed in the other man's face. This arrogant young pup thought *he* was officer material! "Why? Have I inspired you today, Winters?"

The young man looked him directly in the eye as he replied; "Yes, sir. You could say you inspired me. Today was very educational, sir…in its own way."

"So, you see yourself as a leader of men, then, Winters?" The smug lieutenant was enjoying himself.

The young man hesitated. "I don't know much yet about being an officer, sir. But I would try to lead by example. And I would always put my men first, sir."

At that, the lieutenant did laugh in the face of the young red-haired man. "That's all, Winters! Dismissed."

As the two exchanged salutes and the red-haired man made his exit, the lieutenant who could not tell one rifle from another shook his head in disbelief. What was the Army coming to, if just anyone—even a quiet, shy, naïve young soldier like that, considered himself to be officer material? Oh, well, no matter. It wasn't likely the soldier was ever going to rise above the rank of private, much less that anyone would ever hear about the bravery or the deeds of Richard D. Winters.


	2. Chapter 2

7

Title: "Foreshadowing," Chapter 2

Author: Darkover

Characters: Richard Winters, Harry Welsh, Lt. Raymond Schmitz

Rating: T, for a few swear words.

Disclaimer: I do not own "Band of Brothers," the miniseries. I do not own any of the men upon whom the miniseries was based, as they were and are real people, whom I greatly respect and admire. This is a work of fiction. No offense is intended, and I fervently hope none is taken. Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery, and I am not making any money off of this, so please do not sue.

Summary: A fateful incident makes Harry Welsh decide to transfer to Easy Company of the 506th. Please read and review!

"Hey, Red. What are you doing here? This isn't your company. This isn't even your division."

Harry Welsh's head immediately snapped around, alerted both by the derisive "Red" and the belligerent tone of the questioner, but for a change, the owner of the voice was not addressing him. The remark was directed at another red-haired man, one Welsh felt sure he had not seen before. The other red-haired man was, as his uniform and shoulder patch indicated, from the 101rst Airborne, rather than Welsh's own 82nd. This man was taller than Welsh, who was a bit on the short side for a paratrooper, but he was neither as tall nor as broad as the man who addressed him so obnoxiously.

The man posing the question was First Lieutenant Raymond Schmitz, known among the enlisted men of the 82nd as "Lt. Shits." Apart from his obvious size and strength, one of the first things Harry Welsh and the other men of the 82nd Airborne had noticed was how much Schmitz liked to throw his considerable weight around. He bullied the enlisted men, who because of the difference in rank dared not stand up to him, and also gave a hard time to those who were his equal in rank, at least those who were unwilling to fight him. The 82nd Airborne was hardly a collection of shrinking violets, but most men were intimidated by Schmitz's size and bulk, as well as his skill at boxing. At the moment, Schmitz was standing directly in front of the office of their Company C.O., Captain Moore, preventing the man from the 101rst from entering.

"I have a message for Captain Moore," the tall red-haired man said. "Excuse me." He started to step around Schmitz, who promptly moved to block his way again.

"You didn't answer my question, Red. Are you lost?" Schmitz made an exaggerated show of inspecting the other man's shoulder patch, then smiled. "I'm not surprised. A Screaming Eagle. You know what the Eagle is screaming, don't you, Red? It's saying; 'Help! Help! I'm not an eagle, I'm a chicken!'"

Welsh was speechless. Such an insult, if directed against his own division, would have had him ablaze with fury and wading into the Schmitz with both fists. But the young man with the name 'Winters' stenciled on his shirt just looked at Schmitz. "You don't know what you're talking about."

Not "Shut up," or even: "Go to hell," Welsh noticed. Winters had answered with more annoyance than anger, and without any trace of fear. He just spoke to Schmitz as if the latter were an ignorant kid.

This seemed to faze Schmitz for a moment, but then he said to the other lieutenant; "What's the matter, Winters, you couldn't make it in the 82nd? That's the real airborne."

"Get out of my way," Winters said.

"Why don't you make me?"

Winters shrugged. "If that's what it takes."

"Tell you what, Red," Schmitz said, obviously enjoying himself, and clearly not considering this young man to be much of a threat. "I'll give you a sporting chance. Come on over to the boxing ring with me, and we'll have a match."

"Like hell," Welsh said, stepping forward. Winters was from outside the division. He did not know about Schmitz's reputation as a formidable boxer—and as a dirty fighter.

Schmitz glanced back at him. "Stay out of this, shrimp. This is between me and Winters here."

The young lieutenant from the 101rst did not seem concerned, or in need of Harry's help. "Lead on."

Schmitz smirked, then marched off toward the Quonset hut where the men of the 82nd held their boxing matches. Winters and Welsh both followed, the latter with a feeling of dread. Winters was not nearly so big and broad as Schmitz, and Welsh doubted if anyone as quiet as this kid was had ever been in a fight in his life. Schmitz probably would not even have to fight dirty to hurt this Winters really bad.

When they reached the hut, Schmitz swaggered inside. Winters did not follow. He just closed the door of the hut, picked up a nearby rake that someone had been using to police the area, and wedged the long wooden handle in the handle of the door. Welsh grinned, and then started to laugh as the Schmitz, having noticed that his opponent was not following, had come back and tried to open the door, only to find it jammed.

"Winters! You son-of-a-bitch, what did you do? Let me out!"

The man from the 101rst Airborne had already turned away and gone about his mission, ignoring Schmitz's pounding and shouted threats. Welsh, still laughing, hastened to catch up with the other man's longer strides.

"That was pretty good," he told Winters. "Of course, seeing you kick his ass would have been even better, but that wasn't bad at all."

The other man gave him a slight smile. "Well, I do have this message for Captain Moore, and I couldn't afford to waste any more time. I'm going to have to run back to Camp Toccoa as it is."

"Have you ever thought about transferring to the 82nd? We could use men like you."

"I wouldn't want to leave my company."

That surprised Welsh a little; of all the reasons the other man might have given, that was not one that would have occurred to Harry Welsh. Except for the Schmitz, Welsh got along well enough with the men in his own outfit, but he felt no particular loyalty or friendship with them, nor they with him. "What company are you in, Winters?"

"Easy Company, 506th."

Later that night, long after Winters had delivered his message and returned to his own camp, Harry Welsh lay awake in his bunk, thinking. Usually he dropped off to sleep right away, but he could not stop thinking about the incident involving Winters. Welsh had seen Schmitz give a hard time to a lot of men, himself included, and he could not think of any other man who would have handled the situation so well. Most men either backed down in the face of Schmitz's bullying, or they fought—and even when they won, which did not often happen, they got in trouble for fighting in the first place. Because Schmitz was not the only jerk in camp, and because Harry Welsh was not a man inclined to back down when insulted, he had been warned that he would lose his lieutenant's bars if he got in another fight. Maybe it was time for a fresh start.

Yes, that's what I'll do, he decided. I'll apply for a transfer to Easy Company, 506th, of the 101rst Airborne. Since joining the Army, Winters was the first man Welsh had met whom he genuinely liked and admired. He also knew he would welcome fighting alongside a man like Winters.

Satisfied with his decision, Harry Welsh turned over and went to sleep.


	3. Chapter 3

9

Title: "Foreshadowing," Chapter Three

Author: Darkover

Characters: Dick Winters, Lewis Nixon, Herbert Sobel, Harry Welsh

Rating: K+

Disclaimer: See Chapter One.

Summary: See Chapter One.

Author's Note: For this chapter, I have drawn heavily upon some of the dialogue used in Episode One. I ask the reader to forgive me, but I considered it necessary. Please read and review!

"What is this?" Sobel demanded, holding up a can of fruit before the eyes of his junior officers. "Anybody," he added, when there was no response.

"Ah, it's a can of peaches, sir," Nixon said dryly. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the faintest hint of a smile on his best friend's face as one corner of Winters' mouth turned up. Careful, Dick, he mentally tried to telegraph to his friend. If Sobel thinks you might be laughing at him, he'll make your life even more miserable than he already has—if that's possible.

"Lieutenant Nixon thinks this is a can of peaches," Sobel said, emphasizing every other word with mocking sarcasm. "That is incorrect, Lieutenant; your weekend pass is cancelled. This is United States Army property…."

As Sobel ranted on, making it clear that his definition of contraband was even broader than the Army's, Nixon, Winters, and the other two second lieutenants all remained rigidly at attention. None of them betrayed their thoughts or feelings about the leadership skills, or lack thereof, of the C.O. of Easy Company. Winters had already stuck his neck out a moment ago by asking if a personal letter was to be considered contraband. It hadn't done any good, but as usual, Nixon realized, Dick had been trying to defend the enlisted men as best he could. While there were still times when Nixon admired Sobel's rigorous methods of training, the latter's increasing, thinly-veiled hostility toward Dick Winters was beginning to worry him.

Finally, Sobel wound down, after making sure to deprive everyone in Easy of their weekend passes. "Dismissed. Lieutenant Winters, come with me."

Nixon glanced back sharply, but of course there was nothing he could do. He didn't know what their excuse for a C.O. wanted with his friend, but it was a safe bet that it was not a matter of paying Dick a compliment.

Nixon returned to their shared quarters, looking up quickly when his best friend returned. "What did he want this time? Do you have to inspect the latrines again?" If there was any kind of a dirty job to do in this camp, Sobel gave it to Dick, every single time.

Winters smiled and showed his new bars. Nixon whistled. "A full Lieutenant! Congratulations, Dick."

"Thanks," the red-haired man said, with one of his rare broad smiles.

"I'll bet that must have hurt," Nixon said. When Winters raised his eyebrows, Nixon added; "Giving you those bars. I'll bet that caused Sobel actual physical pain. He hates your guts."

"You once called him a genius," Winters said, sounding a bit amused.

"Yeah, well, I still think he has the right idea about pushing the men to their limits—and then past that. But now he's getting paranoid—and the object of his paranoia is you."

"We have different styles of leadership," Winters admitted. "He believes in intimidation and continual misery. I know training for paratroopers has to be intense. The more we sweat in training, the less we'll bleed in war. I get that. I just can't believe humiliation is ever a good way of teaching anybody anything. If you expect a soldier to act like a man, it seems to me you have to treat him like one."

Nixon grinned. "I think that's as much as I've ever heard you say at once. But seriously, Dick, Sobel considers you a threat. Watch your back around him."

"I've never done anything to him."

"You don't have to. The men hate him, and I don't think he's too worried about that, but they respect you—hell, they love you, and they'd rather follow you than him any day. He can't stand that."

Winters sighed. "You might be right. He just informed me that as a 'test of my organizational skills and command potential,' he's ordering me to be mess officer for the next fourteen days. I'm ordered to report to the mess tent at 0515, and then have breakfast ready for Easy Company at 0600 tomorrow morning."

Nixon sat up. "Jesus, Dick. In order to get that done, you may not even have time to go to bed at all!"

Winters shrugged. "I can live with that, if he's willing to take proper care of the men. If he'd just stop thinking so much about himself and his ego, and worry a little more about their welfare. You know how he is; 'This is *my* command. Under *my* command, this will be the first and finest company in this regiment.'"

Nixon chuckled. Winters was no George Luz when it came to mimicry, but he had infused enough pomposity into his tone to sound momentarily like Sobel. "I wouldn't hold my breath waiting for him to become a humanitarian, my friend."

"Yeah. I just hope he's beginning to understand that sometimes the carrot works as well as the stick. He told me to provide a special meal for them tomorrow. He wants it to be spaghetti—of course because it's what *he* likes—but at least he's making an effort."

"Maybe." Nixon was far from convinced. "Just remember what I said. Watch your back around Sobel. If there is anything he can do to make you look bad, he will."

"Orders changed! Get up!" Sobel shouted as he barged into the mess tent.

The men instantly stopped eating and stood up at attention, many of them with their mouths still full.

"Breakfast is cancelled! Easy Company is running up Currahee! Move! Move! Three miles up, three miles down! Hi-ho, Silver! Let's go! Let's go!"

While issuing the last order, Sobel, smirking, looked directly at Winters. His expression clearly indicated his hope that, as the new mess officer, Winters would be blamed by the enlisted men for this cheap trick. Sobel had obviously felt that the enlisted men would assume Winters knew they were to run Currahee as usual, and had deliberately fed them such a heavy meal beforehand. Winters, meeting his commanding officer's gaze, showed little emotion, but there was disgust in his blue eyes.

Minutes later, Sobel was following his usual brand of leadership by shouting abuse at the running, retching men of Easy Company while urging them to give up. Then a familiar voice was heard; "We pull upon the risers, we fall upon the grass…"

The men joined in the song, their spirits visibly lifting as Winters joined them, running alongside them, supporting and leading them, even though he had not been required to join them in this run.

Winters took the lead. As the men ran past him, Sobel stopped and looked after them, his expression unreadable.

Months later, at Camp Mackall, Nixon shook his head in sympathy following his best friend's account of Sobel's inadequate leadership during the war games exercise. "Well, what are you gonna do?"

"Nothin'," Winters answered. "Just keep training the men."

A new lieutenant, with short, curly red hair, appeared in the doorway. "Am I interrupting?"

Nixon glanced at the man, and then shot his best friend a quizzical look.

"No, no," Dick assured the new lieutenant. "Lieutenant Lewis Nixon, this is Lieutenant Harry Welsh…"

After introductions were completed, and Nixon's usual wisecracks made, the three men discussed the Sobel situation. Winters had just suggested, politely but firmly, that they keep such conversations between the three of them, with the other two men agreeing, when Sobel appeared in the doorway so abruptly that he seemed to have risen from the floorboards. All three lieutenants instantly snapped to attention, facing him.

Gazing at his three junior officers, Sobel's mind was dark with suspicion. Had they been plotting against him? Here was that new Lieutenant Welsh, already talking with Winters and the latter's friend, Nixon. As usual, Winters was trying to win the new man over, turn the men against him, as he always did. Did they really believe he didn't know?

While issuing his orders, Sobel made a point of eating his apple as if he was completely unworried about the conversation that had been taking place between these officers. He noted with satisfaction that there was fear in the eyes of that smart-alec Nixon, and in the eyes of that new Irish troublemaker Welsh, too. But there was not even a trace of apprehension in the gaze of Dick Winters. Those blue eyes that met his look were clear and completely calm. The man was centered so completely, it was as if nothing negative could ever touch him. Damn him! His very existence was infuriating!

Well, he still has to do what I tell him, Sobel thought. "Second Platoon ready?"

"Ready, sir."

"Then get them in formation. We're moving out."

"Yes, sir," Winters responded, and left. Welsh beat a hasty retreat, as well.

Sobel remained for a moment longer, staring at Nixon. The man was Winters' best friend. They were probably plotting together. Unfortunately, he had already deprived Nixon of a weekend pass, and the man was scheduled to report to regimental HQ to join their staff, so there was really nothing Sobel could do to him.

As he left the barracks, Sobel decided that it didn't matter what they had been talking about. I am still the commander of Easy Company, he thought. Winters will always have to take my orders. When it comes time to lead the company into combat, everyone will see who the better man is.


	4. Chapter 4

8

Title: "Foreshadowing," Chapter Four

Author: Darkover

Characters: Dick Winters, Bill Guarnere, Don Malarkey, Skip Muck, Raymond Schmitz, George Luz, Harry Welsh, Lewis Nixon

Rating: T

Disclaimer: Please see Chapter One.

Summary: Please see Chapter One.

On one of Easy Company's recent runs, Skip Muck had been struck with a charley horse which had caused him to stumble momentarily, and his best buddy, Don Malarkey, had grabbed Skip by the arm to keep him from falling. Sobel had witnessed it, and had not only cancelled their weekend pass; he had added misery to the life of Sgt. Bill Guarnere by ordering the Sergeant not only to find a punishment for their infraction, but to supervise them personally as well. So, Muck and Malarkey were policing the parade ground by the Quonset huts, and Guarnere was standing by smoking a cigarette, when the large, burly Lieutenant in the uniform of the 82nd Airborne approached them. The three young men of the 101rst all came to attention and saluted.

"At ease," the big man said. The name on his uniform shirt read: SCHMITZ. "There's supposed to be a Lieutenant Dick Winters in this outfit. Tell me where I can find him." From his tone, one might have supposed that Winters owed him money.

"Why do ya wanna know, Lieutenant?" Guarnere asked.

"None of your damn business, Sergeant," the big man snarled. "Now, do one of you three tell me where Winters is, or do I have to start kicking ass?"

Schmitz's attempt at intimidation failed completely. The three paratroopers of Easy Company, long used to being berated and threatened by Sobel, merely gazed at him dispassionately, without the slightest hint of fear. Guarnere blew smoke in Schmitz's direction, and then flicked away his cigarette butt. "Hard to say, sir. Lt. Winters is a busy man."

Even as the Sergeant spoke, the door of a nearby Quonset hut opened and their Lieutenant came out. Schmitz instantly turned his attention that way, shouting; "Winters!"

The red-haired man stopped and turned as Schmitz strode up to him. "Thought I wouldn't find you? You still have to prove yourself to me, Winters. And no cheap tricks this time."

"Schmitz, I have nothing to prove to you," Dick said shortly. "Get lost."

"Winters, that ought to be a chicken on your shoulder patch instead of an eagle," Schmitz sneered.

The red-haired man exhaled. "Schmitz, haven't you been able to think of a new insult by now? I'm not interested in fighting you. Go away."

"Damn, Winters, why in hell did you join the airborne if you're too chickenshit to fight?" Dramatically, Schmitz took out his wallet, removed some money, and then waved the bill in front of the other man's nose. "Here! Five dollars says you can't beat me!"

Winters glanced over at the parade ground. Guarnere, Malarkey, and Muck, all three his men, were watching; there was no doubt they had heard Schmitz's challenge. Besides, he was tired of the other man's bluster. This had gone on long enough.

"Fine. Let's take this behind the hut."

"Don't want your men to see you get beat, huh?" Schmitz said loudly, obviously hoping the Easy Company men would overhear. "Not surprised. Let's go!"

The three enlisted men stopped what they were doing and ceased all pretense at not staring or listening as they watched the two young lieutenants go around the back of the nearest Quonset hut.

"Five bucks says Winters beats the blowhard," Don Malarkey said.

"I dunno," Skip Muck said dubiously. "That's a pretty big guy."

"And Winters don't even drink—" Bill Guarnere started to say. That was as far as he got before there was the sound of a loud thud as something hit the back of the Quonset hut, immediately followed by a scream.

"That's not Winters," Malarkey said, grinning.

"Geez, that lieutenant screams like a little girl," Guarnere said. "What a pantywaist."

A moment later their own lieutenant, looking slightly perturbed, came back from around the Quonset hut. Sounds of moans and curses drifted from behind the hut. The three young paratroopers snapped to attention.

"Muck, go find a medic," Winters ordered. "Tell him there's an injured man here who needs attention. A stretcher may also be required."

"Yes, sir!" Muck snapped off a salute and then took off running.

"Did the poor fella fall down and hurt himself, sir?" Guarnere inquired, sounding solicitous. Malarkey was fighting to keep a straight face.

Winters eyed him. "Yes, Sgt, Guarnere, I believe he did. When the medic gets here with the stretcher, you two men give him a hand. Schmitz doesn't want me near him."

"Yes, sir!" The two enlisted men chorused, each snapping off a salute. They managed to contain themselves until their lieutenant departed, but making eye contact with each other a moment later, they both burst out laughing.

A few minutes later, upon entering the quarters that he shared with Nixon, Welsh, and Matheson, Winters found Harry Welsh in residence, listening to George Luz. Welsh was laughing out loud at whatever Luz was saying, and Winters had just heard—"kicked his ass but good—" when Luz caught sight of him. Luz instantly broke off his talk and came to attention; Welsh was still laughing.

"At ease, Luz," Winters told the private.

"Oh, Dick," Welsh said, shaking his head and wiping his eyes. "Luz was just telling me how you shut Lt. Schmitz up once and for all. I wish I could have seen that."

"He shoulda sold tickets, from what I hear," Luz said.

"It wasn't that big a deal," Winters started to protest.

"Are you kiddin', sir?" Luz was beaming with pride at his lieutenant. "Not only did you shut up some loudmouth blowhard who compared our Screamin' Eagle to a chicken, you kicked the ass of a guy a lot bigger than you. Made him scream like a little girl, Bill Guarnere said."

"Is that who told you about this? Guarnere?" Winters demanded.

"No, sir. I heard it from Alec Penkala, who heard it from Skip Muck. Skip says Doc Roe said you broke this Schmitz's guy's wrist and did somethin' to his back. He ain't goin' to be doin' no more drops anytime soon, sir."

"Or challenging anybody to any more fights," Welsh said, still chuckling.

"Doc Roe says Lt. Schmitz probably won't be able to go overseas with his outfit, much less have to make the big drop," Luz told Welsh, and then turned back to Winters. "Sir, will you break *my* arm for five dollars?" Welsh burst out laughing again.

"You're dismissed, Luz," Winters told him.

"Yes, sir." Still smiling, the private saluted, and then took off.

"Harry, you're an officer," Dick reminded his friend. "Do you really think you should be listening to the enlisted men's gossip?"

"When it's about something like this? Hell, yes!"

"He's not the only one," Lewis Nixon said, entering their quarters in time to hear the last few remarks. "I hear you haven't been playing nicely with others, Dick."

Winters looked from one man to the other. "Is it all over the camp?"

"Probably," Nixon said, with a grin every bit as wide as that on the face of Harry Welsh. "Am I in the presence of Easy Company's new boxing champ?"

"We were wrestling," their friend said, so automatically that both Nixon and Welsh laughed.

"Glad we've got that straight," Welsh said.

"Schmitz didn't know you were a champion wrestler in college, did he?" Nixon asked.

"He found out the hard way," Welsh said. "Come on, Dick. You can't expect us not to enjoy this. It's long overdue. Schmitz had it coming."

Nixon nodded. "You've been putting up with Schmitz for awhile, but I knew you'd get fed up eventually." Especially when he insulted you in front of your men, the intelligence officer thought.

Winters smiled at his friends, but his smile faded when he spoke again. "Has Colonel Sink heard about this?"

"Yeah. Schmitz has a broken wrist and two cracked vertebrae. Because his injuries are such that he's going to have to remain stateside for awhile, Colonel Sink has ordered that there's to be no more fighting for any reason." Nixon studied his best friend. "Relax, Dick. He's not going to reprimand you. And the men think what you did was great."

Of course, the story spread all over the camp, and Luz's rejoinder as well, for during the week that followed, Winters was asked repeatedly by the men of Easy Company; "Sir, will you break my arm for five dollars? Get me out of the big jump, sir!" Winters was sensible enough to take it all with good grace. Nothing more was heard from Schmitz, who returned to the 82nd Airborne, and seemed more than content to stay there.


	5. Chapter 5

9

Title: "Foreshadowing," Chapter Five

Author: Darkover

Characters: Dick Winters, Mr. and Mrs. Barnes, Colonel Sink

Disclaimer: See Chapter One.

Summary: See Chapter One.

Dick Winters sat down on the bench in the cemetery. This cemetery, unlike most of those back in the States, was situated directly behind the small English church where he had just finished attending Sunday services. He wasn't even sure what kind of church it was, but the music had been good, the sermon brief, and the service itself had calmed him a little. He mostly wanted to get away from camp for awhile. If he had to look at another human being, he wanted it to be someone who was *not* wearing olive drab.

He had hoped for a little sunshine, but it was gray and overcast, and, *of course,* it started to rain. He had been in England less than a week, but rain seemed to be a daily occurrence here. He grimaced. No sun. Continual damp. No cold drinks, ice cream, hot dogs, marshmallows, or anything he had been used to back in the States. He hadn't had any letters from home, he had endured a sea voyage on a ship that was too small and held too many men, and at present he was crammed into a small makeshift barracks with the other junior officers. Resentfully, he wondered why the politicians of this world had not handled things better. Why did he and the other men of Easy Company have to come all the way from home, to another country, to fight a war? He hadn't started the war. His men hadn't started the war. His country hadn't started the war. So why did he have to be here?

This rare foray into self-pity was interrupted when an elderly—to Dick's youthful eyes—couple entered the cemetery, bearing flowers. He rose from the bench when it became clear that they were going to place the flowers on a nearby plot.

"Excuse me," he told them, not wanting to interrupt their mourning. "If my presence disturbs you, I can leave."

"Not at all, Leftenant," the older man said. He nodded at the lady with him, who carefully placed the flowers before a stone set atop a nearby grave. "We were just visiting our son's resting place."

The lady straightened, looking at Winters. "Our only child," she added. "Richard was in the R.A.F. We lost him one year ago today."

"I'm so sorry," Winters said, feeling ashamed of his earlier grumpiness. How did his petty frustrations and resentments compare to this couple's loss of their son? "You say his name was Richard?"

The older man nodded. "Quite."

"He was a fine young man," the woman told him.

"I'm sure he was, Ma'am."

"Forgive us, Leftenant: we haven't introduced ourselves," the older man apologized. "I am Mr. Francis Barnes, and this is Mrs. Barnes."

Winters held out his hand; the other man shook it. "How do you do, sir. I'm Richard Winters."

"Richard!" Mrs. Barnes exclaimed, seemingly delighted. "The same as our son! What a lovely coincidence!"

Winters smiled, pleased by her enthusiasm, especially as she might just as easily have found the coincidence upsetting. "Yes, Ma'am."

"You must come home with us," she told him, and her husband nodded assent. "It's a bit early for luncheon, but we have tea and biscuits—"

"I wouldn't want to intrude, Ma'am," Winters protested.

"Nonsense, Leftenant," Mr. Barnes said. "Our home is only a short distance away, and we should be glad of the company. You don't have to return to base immediately, do you?"

"No sir, I don't."

"Splendid! It's settled then," Mr. Barnes said, smiling. "Besides, Leftenant, with you as our guest, I can tell some of my old stories about when I was in the Great War. You are a fresh audience. My poor wife has heard my stories dozens of times."

"Hundreds," Mrs. Barnes assured them, and they all laughed. "Please do join us, Leftenant Winters."

"Thank you, Ma'am. I'm very pleased."

They all had a pleasant time. Aware of the food shortages, Winters tried not to eat too many of Mrs. Barnes' homemade biscuits—or as he would have called them, cookies—even though they were delicious and she kept urging him to have more. The Barneses did not seem to possess much in the way of stereotypical British reserve. They talked with Dick as if they had known him for months, if not years. Mr. Barnes did offer some anecdotes of his military days, but he kept them brief and amusing, and did not mention the more sordid aspects of war at all. The couple told him about life in the village of Aldbourne, about English customs in general, about the young girl staying with them who was a refugee from the London bombings, and about their son. Winters, in turn, felt himself warming quickly to this couple, who seemed like older, English versions of his own parents. He stayed at the Barneses' home for almost two hours before reluctantly leaving to return to base.

The following day, Winters was summoned to Colonel Sink's office.

"At ease, Lieutenant," the C.O. of the 506th told him. He scrutinized his junior officer for a moment. "I thought you didn't know anyone in this country."

Winters blinked in surprise. "I don't, sir."

"Well, someone sure as hell knows you. Since the 506th arrived in Aldbourne, we've been askin' the townsfolk if they'd be willin' to quarter an officer or two in their homes." Sink tapped a piece of paper on his desk. "I got a message this mornin' that a Mr. and Mrs. Barnes have agreed to house two officers, provided one 'a' them was you. They were a might insistent on that, apparently. Any objections?"

"No sir."

"Good. You and Lt. Welsh will reside with Mr. and Mrs. Barnes." Sink paused for a moment. "Well done, Dick."

There was a tap on the closed door of Winters' room in the Barnes house. "Leftenant, it is almost nine o'clock. Would you like to come downstairs and listen to the news on the radio?"

"Yes, Ma'am," Winters said, marking the spot in the book he was reading and rising from the chair. The book belonged to Mr. Barnes, who was an avid reader, and quite generous in allowing the young American officer to borrow from his private library. Moreover, the polite summons to join the couple and their young ward as they listened to the evening news was becoming a familiar evening ritual, one which Winters enjoyed. After a long day spent training the men and enduring Sobel's abuse, having a quiet place to which he could retreat on most evenings was a balm to Dick Winters' soul.

He descended the stairs. Already seated near the radio were the Barneses and the young girl, Elaine, a London child who had been sent to the English countryside to escape the bombings. Harry Welsh was not present; he would not be back until the pubs closed.

"Tea, Leftenant?" Mrs. Barnes inquired, ready to pour out.

"Yes, Ma'am. Thank you." He waited until cups had been poured and distributed. He took his cup and saucer very carefully; as usual, it was served in Mrs. Barnes' wafer-thin bone china, and he dreaded what would happen if he was ever so clumsy as to drop it.

"How was school today, Elaine?" Mrs. Barnes asked the young girl.

"Boring as ever," she replied. "I don't see why I have to go to school at all. I wish I could do something for the war effort."

"You are: you are staying safe and not worrying your parents," Mrs. Barnes said reprovingly. She turned to Dick. "And you, Leftenant? How did you pass your time?"

"The usual, Ma'am," Winters replied. "Drilling and training with my men. We've been making as much use as possible of the hedgerows here in Aldbourne—there are supposed to be similar to the ones in France. We conduct exercises." He refrained from telling the English couple about Sobel's wrath at Winters' squad achieving the objective, when Sobel getting lost had eliminated his own squad from the exercise. Dick also did not mention his own worries about whether or not he would be able to be an effective leader in true combat. But as he carefully set his cup back in its saucer, he saw Mr. Barnes gazing at him. The older man smiled gently, as if aware of Dick's unspoken concerns.

Mrs. Barnes refilled Dick's teacup. "I had a busy day as well. Between standing in queue to do the shopping, doing laundry, gardening, dusting, and mopping, I am all knocked up."

Dick, in the act of taking a sip, almost choked. Fortunately, at that moment, Mr. Barnes had finished tuning the radio to the BBC, the evening news came on, and everyone turned their attention to that.

When the news concluded, Mr. Barnes turned off the radio. "Time for bed," Mrs. Barnes said. This announcement was aimed primarily at Elaine, but as she left the room, Winters stood up as well.

"Goodnight, Mrs. Barnes." He nodded at her husband. "Goodnight, sir."

When the sound of Winters mounting the stairs indicated the young man was out of earshot, Mr. Barnes said thoughtfully; "I wonder if our leftenant is quite happy here."

"Of course he is!" Mrs. Barnes said, in a tone indicating there could be no other possibility.

"I didn't mean with us, my dear; I meant here, in England. Having to fight a war." Mr. Barnes sighed. "Dick never says much, but at times I have overheard him talking with Leftenant Welsh. It seems that Captain Sobel of theirs is quite the tyrant, and especially where Dick is concerned. Moreover, unlike Welsh, Dick is not gregarious. He seldom leaves Aldbourne."

"Doesn't that demonstrate that he is happy here?"

"Or, perhaps, that Captain Sobel will not give him leave." Mr. Barnes quickly held up a hand to forestall his wife's objections. "Please, my dear. I know you believe Dick to be happy with us, but that may be because we are so happy having him here. I am also quite fond of the lad, but I know that you regard him as something of a replacement for our own son." Her husband hesitated momentarily before adding, very gently; "There is a war going on, my love, and he is a paratrooper. Perhaps it's best if you aren't quite so attached to him."

Mrs. Barnes loaded a tray with an agitated clatter of used cups and saucers. "I have never heard such nonsense." As she moved to carry the tea items to the kitchen, she paused in the doorway. "For your information, I have already prayed about this. God has allowed the war to take one son from me. I am sure that He will not allow the war to take another. Mark my words, Dick will come through this war unscathed."

With that, she swept out of the room, leaving her husband stunned into silence.


	6. Chapter 6

7

Title: "Foreshadowing," Chapter Six

Author: Darkover

Rating: K

Disclaimer: Please see Chapter One.

Characters: Lt. Richard Winters, Lewis Nixon, Pvt. Hall

Summary: Please see Chapter One.

"We'll go to Chicago. I'll take you there," Lewis Nixon said.

"Yeah. We'll see," Dick Winters said noncommittally. He liked the idea, but they had to get through the war first. Specifically, they had to survive the big jump, followed by the "three days and three nights of hard fighting" that General Maxwell Taylor wanted from them. Right now, that did not seem like a very realistic possibility.

He turned his head to look at Nixon, who was in the act of lighting a cigarette. Winters studied this simple action intently, trying to memorize every detail about his friend. The odds were such that neither of them would survive; the odds that both would survive would be like winning the Irish Sweepstakes. When Nixon glanced back again, Winters looked away, not wishing to make his friend uncomfortable. In spite of the overwhelming odds against them, Dick felt remarkably unafraid. He had drilled and trained his men. He had drilled himself even more relentlessly. He had all but memorized the U.S. Army manual on combat training. He had written letters to everyone back home whom he cared about; and he had made out a will. He was as prepared as he could be. His only real worry was if he was up to the task of leading these men.

On their way to the planes on D-Day, the American paratroopers passed a British anti-aircraft gun crew, who called out to them, "Good luck, Yanks," and shook their hands. Some of them even had tears in their eyes, which surprised Winters—his experience with the Tommies was that they did not often lend themselves to emotional displays. He wondered briefly if they knew something he didn't, wondered again if he would be alive next spring to see the flowers bloom—in England or anywhere else—and then put such thoughts to one side in his mind. There was a job to do.

They loaded up, and it was time to board. Winters spoke to his men. "Good luck. God bless you. I'll see you in the assembly area." Some of the men smiled, thinking that for the laconic Winters, that was almost a speech. Their lieutenant gave each man a helping hand up and onto the aircraft. As he did so, he made sure to make eye contact with each one. There, they read the unspoken promise: I know you. I care about you. We are Easy Company, and we will not fail.

Having made sure every man in his stick was seated inside the plane, Winters staggered slightly when the airsickness pills abruptly took effect. Steadying himself, he sat down next to the open door of the plane, hoping that some fresh air would clear his head. He was both jumpmaster and the ranking officer on board the plane, which meant that unlike the rest of the men, he did not dare fall asleep.

His eyes widened at what he saw, and for a second, he thought the pills were making him hallucinate. The sky was filled with aircraft—more planes than Winters had ever seen before, more than he had ever believed possible. This was more than a battle, more even than an invasion. This was an armada in the sky. For a moment, he felt insignificant. Then he began silently to pray; not for his own survival, but that he be worthy of his men, and accomplish his mission while still keeping them alive.

Hours passed. Sitting in the plane, feeling the intense vibrations through his legs and back, Dick noticed the man across from him fidgeting nervously and repeatedly with his parachute. Their eyes met momentarily. Winters smiled reassuringly; the other trooper smiled tentatively back, and stopped fiddling with his straps.

The light came on. "Stand up! Hook up!" Winters had to shout to make himself heard over the rattling of the plane and the sounds of bombs and flak outside. He and the men of his stick went through the equipment check for the jump.

After an interminable period, when it seemed as if the plane would be hit and they would crash before they even got a chance to jump, the light turned green, and in the next second Winters was out the door. "Bill Lee!" he yelled, pulling the rip cord. For the next few terrifyingly vulnerable moments, he would have to rely on luck. There was so much flak he could have walked on it. Barely, above all the other noise, he could hear church bells tolling. Looking down, he saw something on the ground that was on fire. He hoped he would not land in it. If he did, he would roast alive before he would be able to divest himself of his chute and equipment, and fight his way out of the flames.

Landing with a bone-jarring thud, he wrestled his way out of the chute, and he was just realizing that he was weaponless and without his leg bag, when he heard the sound of someone nearby in the dark. "Flash!"

"Shit!" Well, that was a G.I., to be sure. But he couldn't resist pointing out, as he helped the other man out of the latter's chute, "I don't think that's the correct reply, trooper. I say 'Flash,' you say, 'Thunder.'"

"Sorry sir, Thunder sir," the other replied automatically, and a moment later, he was gaping, wide-eyed at Winters. Sounding like a very young boy, he said, "Coach?"

The next few minutes were frantic and confused, but one thing was clear to Winters; if he and this other paratrooper were to survive the night, much less do their duty, he must get the private on his side, get him to accept his authority, and do it quickly. Of course, Winters was an officer, and Private Hall had been trained to take orders, but Dick could see that the boy beside him was frightened almost to the point of panic. Seeing Hall's gaze dart around nervously, hearing the boy's shivering intake of breath, Dick thought: Defuse his fear. Get him to focus on something. Keeping his voice level, Winters said; "So, you're a radio man."

"Yes sir. Well, I was until I lost my radio in the jump. I'm sure I'll get chewed out for that," he added gloomily.

"Well, if you were in my platoon, I'd say you were a rifleman first, and a radio man second."

"Maybe you can tell my platoon leader that, when we find him." Hall swallowed nervously. "If we find him."

"It's a deal," Winters said in the same level, almost soothing voice. "But first I need your help." It was working; Hall was listening, and he followed.

Private Hall had never expected it to be so *dark,* and the realization that there was no safety here, that there was enemy no matter what direction he went, was almost enough to make his heart-pounding fear spill over into blind terror. The only thing that kept him from panicking was the steadiness of Lt. Winters beside him. Hall was amazed by the red-haired lieutenant. Sure, Winters was an officer. But he had no gear, no rifle, no ammo, no weapon of any kind except a survival knife, and yet, it was Lt. Winters who led the way, however briefly, against a kraut machine gun. Everything was noisy, dark, dangerous, scary—hell, Hall himself just wanted to curl up in a ditch somewhere and hide, and if Lt. Winters hadn't come along, he might have done just that. But Lt. Winters not only kept his cool and was able to think, he seemed to know just what to do. And geez, he just made a *joke.* About trees. Okay, not exactly a knee-slapper, but how he could even make a joke at all, under the circumstances, was nothing short of miraculous, in Hall's opinion.

You couldn't help but follow a man like that.

At the Assembly Area, Hall supposed he was dismissed, but when the soldiers of Easy Company gathered around Lieutenant Winters as he started explaining how they were going to destroy some big guns at Brecourt, Hall listened too. When the Lieutenant explained it, the mission didn't sound like what it was—an overwhelming mission against almost impossible odds—it sounded like a simple, reasonable task. Glancing around, Hall realized how few men would be accompanying Winters on this mission. In spite of the comments of: "So long, Hall," and the pointed remark from a guy named Toye; "Shouldn't you be with the other Able Company guys?" Hall decided to come, too. It wasn't just a matter of doing something instead of just hanging around the Assembly Area, waiting for orders. It was a matter of following Lt. Winters. There was something about this officer that just radiated confidence and concern. Something about him made you feel that he cared what happened to you, and that as long as you followed him and did what he said, everything would be okay. He had proved that to Hall by leading him out of the terrifying early-morning hours of D-Day. Maybe that's why everyone wants to follow him, Hall thought as he hefted his rifle and joined the few men of Easy Company as they set out on this mission. He lets you know that he doesn't expect anything from you that he wouldn't do himself, and you never want to let him down. Pvt. Hall doubted if he, personally, would be of much help, but whatever he could do, he would do for Lt. Winters.


End file.
